


a promise made

by hicsvntdracones



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, King and Queen in the North, Loss of Virginity, Pregnancy, Romance, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hicsvntdracones/pseuds/hicsvntdracones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa returns to Robb to strike peace on behalf of King Joffrey, but their lord father is beheaded in the time she is gone. The two Starks find themselves seeking comfort in one another that night and unknowingly, Robb gets her with child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. darkens your sight

**Author's Note:**

> in this divergence, sansa (15) has been promised to willas tyrell. when robert rides north to ask eddard to be his hand, he proposes that they wed arya (13) and tommen (11) instead. after the three starks have lived at king's landing for a year, king robert passes away and lord eddard is arrested after "conspiring against the crown." at the beginning of the story, sansa runs to find arya instead of to seek safety and stumbles upon the scene in s1e8. story goes from there.

Arya and her dance teacher are surrounded by men of the Kingsguard when Sansa arrives breathless. With a half glance, the Braavosi man identifies Sansa and greets her with a charming smile. Her heart pounds too loud. He’s telling the girls to leave, that Arya must take her sister and leave if they wish to survive. Sansa’s hand squeezes Arya’s hand even tighter, and she cries out suddenly for a parlez. The Kingsguard freeze, still gripping the hilts of their swords, and Sansa continues speaking as she spares a glance at her sister’s dance teacher.

“I call for a parlez with King Joffrey. Under the right of guests, we are not to be harmed.”

“Lest you wish to anger your gods and ours.” Sansa is thankful for the dancer’s remark; the Kingsguard had swore the most holy oaths upon their entrance to the guard and only once had those vows been broken. Ser Meryn calls the others to stand down. She wonders briefly why he called the Old Gods his own, if perhaps the people of Braavos were open to all gods. Her lessons and readings fail her now.

.

They do not grant her an audience with the king for two days. Instead, Sansa comes to sit before the lioness herself, with her wicked grin and glinting green eyes. She speaks promises of a truce and asks for fealty. The word traitor is spoken too many times for her to quite count, so she keeps her eyes trained on her hands that twine over nervously in her lap. They force a quill into her hand, and she focuses hard not to let her letters shake.

The letter is addressed to Robb. At the end, Sansa twists her signature to include to rune for _wolf_ and prays Robb sees.

.

Arya's hair is braided into a simple Northern bun, she had refused vehemently to dress in their heavy gowns and silks. She wears boy's trousers and a loose shirt under a leather jerkin. She kneels beside her sister, whose Tully red hair is twisted into a Southren style that falls in two twists over her shoulders. Her dress has twirls patterned along the sleeves and full skirts. The queen sees one wolf and one dove.

"I beg mercy." Head bowed, eyes honest. Arya refuses to look at the king. Sansa begs for their lord father's life, she begs for mercy. The younger girl is tense just to her right, as if about to leap and tear at Joffrey's throat with her bare hands, even her teeth if they let her. The Red Keep is not their home, and even when Arya marries the second prince, she will never call it home. The winter is their home, and Sansa begs Joffrey to let her return there.

"Your Grace, if it please you, I would go as an envoy to my brother and my lady mother, to speak with them and convince the North to swear fealty. You are the one true king, and I know they would see sense in my words where my traitor father could not." Cersei's smirk falters briefly as she mulls Sansa's proposal. The boy king stands with his crown tight on his head, the jewels casting light when the golden boy paces before the throne.

"Arya will stay in King's Landing, as she is still engaged to Prince Tommen. And you ... How will we know if you would ever return to us, little sweet?" _Gold and green and red_. The queen does not dress in her late husband's colors, but in the colors of her father's house. They had begun to dress Sansa in the same Lannister shades. The wolf child beside Sansa prickles in resentment; this alliance was never one of her own desires. 

"I will return, I swear it, Your Grace."

"We cannot rely on your promises alone, Sansa."

"Perhaps a bribe of sorts, Your Grace, ought to be offered?" Startled by the sudden voice, Sansa looks to Lord Baelish who is on one knee a few feet to her left. He stands then, and continues.

"In return for the loyalty of the North, the lady Stark will marry you." Nearly the moment these words resonate within the throne room, Cersei is standing as well and the gracious queen's smile is replaced by a snarl to rival Arya's own. Lord Baelish shows his open palms and even bows his head to try appeasing her anger. Sansa can hear her heart in her ears and it takes her strength not to reach out and seek her sister's hand. Even if she had reached, Arya's hands are balled into tight fists at her sides. 

"Indeed, Prince Tommen is to wed the younger daughter, but have the lady Sansa wed the king? You will undoubtedly gain her brother and his banners. The North will not fight their own lady." There is a moment where the king and his council consider this. Sansa can hear Pycelle whispering, Varys makes a comment. Cersei's near-inaudible hiss is what Sansa strains to hear. There it is - the word _traitor_. 

Another few beats pass.

"Let it be done then. My lady Sansa is to ride to Winterfell on the morrow to speak peace with her brother, and when she returns, we will wed." Sansa feels faint. The king sits upon his throne of swords and steel, grinning at the thought of having the girl as his queen. It was not the queenship that excited him, nor her claim to the North; it was the thought of his whispered threats coming true. All those times he had cornered her in a hall and hissed violence into her ear as the Kingsguard turned their cheek. Promises to take her from the Tyrells, to ruin her and shame the Stark name. 

"I am promised to another." She manages to speak. Willas was to be her husband. It was a cloak of gold roses that was to be placed around her shoulders in place of a silver and white wolf. Not a lion's cloak of gold and red - deep, crimson red.

"Send a raven to Highgarden. Tell them that the lady Sansa is to be wed to the one true king Joffrey. I am certain they will understand." The lilt to Cersei's voice is too sweet to be written as genuine joy.

.

"They might free you from your engagement to Tommen."

"So that you might be wed to _him_?" Sansa's needle pierces into her thumb when Arya says this. She doesn't cry out until Arya's asking — in a tone that might be mistaken for genuine concern — if she's alright. One of her handmaiden's is at her side, dabbing at the wound and shushing Sansa softly. Arya picks the needle from the floor and stares.

.

She speaks with the Braavosi man at dawn. He would have slipped away if Sansa hadn't been restless and pacing the halls. He walks in a direction that Sansa follows blindly. She wrings her wrists and quietly, so no guards nor spiders might hear, asks if might stay in King's Landing.

"My sister needs a dance instructor, you see."

Syrio, his name is, smiles to Sansa with a bow and a flourish before departing. Something settles within her knowing that her sister will be safe with this man. The only North that remains here amidst the lions is Eddard and his daughters. They have no knights, no septas, no squires.

Realizing where Syrio has left her, Sansa kneels before the stump of what once was a great weirwood.

 _Like at home_. She thinks to herself as she finds herself praying. Piety was never her strong suit. She preferred songs to prayers, but walked almost every day through the godswood with her brother irregardless. Before their departure, she prayed for Bran.

Now she prays for her father. 

For Arya to stay safe, for the king to be merciful. For the Tyrells to forgive her. 

For Robb to listen.

.

She rides the next day at noon. Arya does not see her off, but instead watches from the ramparts where the Queen stands. Sansa can see from where she stands beside the mare that Arya is wishing death upon the woman beside her. Hanging her head to stare at the dirt, Sansa's braided auburn hair rests still in a style that mimics the Queen. She finds herself somewhat disgusted that they have groomed her this way, but then thinks that it was Sansa who wished it this way in the beginning. 

Ser Osmund lifts Sansa to her saddle. She is wearing thin pants under her skirts to ensure she rides with at least some comfort, but her dress otherwise flows around her. 

Cersei oversaw Sansa dressing that morning, circling and circling the young lady who fought not to fidget under her stare. Cersei tugged at her clothing and barked adjustments to the handmaidens. She had originally not worn her corset tightly, but with a word the handmaid yanked and pulled until Sansa's waist thinned. She nudged at the material and yanked until the dipping V of her dress showed the curving tops of Sansa's breasts. Cersei didn't utter a word directly to her, and Sansa never asked why she was dressing Sansa in this way.

.

Kettleblack and Oakheart were chosen to escort the lady Sansa to Winterfell and back. The Lannisters hardly trusted anyone, but these Cersei knew to be her sworn swords. They would return the little dove to her. Lord Baelish pats the snout of Ser Osmund's horse as he trots by.


	2. whispering our mantras

The Oakhearts are a sworn house to the Tyrells, Sansa remembers when they have been riding for some time, this knight Arys had served her crippled betrothed. Highgarden is host to many kind people, _but_ — she muses — _perhaps they will not be so kind when they learn that I have broken my oath to wed him_. Arys smiles politely and helps her down from her saddle and asks after Sansa’s health after many hours of riding.

At Winterfell, she rode often through the surrounding forests, but never for days on end. Robb sometimes asked her to ride with him. Sometimes to hunt, other times simply to get outside the walls of Winterfell. When they were far younger and not so tall, Sansa would sit sidesaddle in front of her brother whose arms would grip the reigns around her. She was his lady, and he her prince.

Fifteen now, Sansa rests her hands in her lap; she rides astride, something the Southren ladies would balk at.

.

“You're afraid?”

“I must be.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good?” His hands are shaking, and all Theon can do is grin. The letter with his sister’s words — _the Queen’s words_ — rests on the table between them. The castle begins to roar to life around them. The banners have been called.

“It means you're not stupid.”

.

He must have read over the letter a half dozen times before he sees his sister’s trick. Her signature, always so elegant and curled is instead jagged and twisted. Robb rushes to his solar to recover other letters she has written to him. He pours over them, staring from one page to another. Squinting, he traces the letters of her name and when he realizes the hidden rune there, grins.

 _Wolf_.

.

Night does not greet them well. The moon hardly shines through the thick clouds, and Grey Wind dashes as a blur between Robb and his men. Theon rides beside him, face settled in his tell-tale grim smirk. For once, there are no words between them. Hooves upon hard earth provide a steady beat in the darkness. At intervals, there are white banners bearing wolves. Robb straightens in his saddle. With his father in the black cells, he is the Lord of Winterfell. Just hours ago, he told his brother that he would serve as lord in his absence. Too many lords, too many.

.

They are laid up at the Crossroads for two days when Sansa bleeds. When old woman Heddle leads them to their rooms, Sansa takes Ser Arys by the arm to balance her. The once dull thrumming pain had turned into shocking agony due to the constant jar of a long ride. The moment the door closes, Sansa undoes the clasps on her gown. The clothes of the capital have far too many clasps and brooches; with all the metal, their gowns are armor. She misses the simple comfort of Northern furs.

"Please —" Breathless, she orders Arys — or perhaps, from the breaking of her voice, she begs him — to unlace her corset. He hesitates only a moment before obeying her. He makes quick work of the cords and soon, Sansa takes a deep, trembling gasp, clutching at her constraints. Both knights turn their eyes dutifully from the indecent sight of their lady.

.

Ser Osmund scouts for any nearby armies. They had caught wind of Northerners marching to King's Landing. 

_Robb_. She covers her smile.

.

She asks old woman Heddle for any books she might have. She has cookbooks, a few maps, and after dusting and digging, Heddle finds _Wonders_ and _The Loves of Queen Nymeria_. She thumbs through the first tome for a few hours at best, but finds herself engrossed reading the latter until past noon of the second day, when her vision blurs and Ser Arys takes the book away. He brings her a dinner of chicken stew which the innkeep made herself.

After dinner, she asks the comely knight about his former lords, the Tyrells. Ser Osmund watches from his post by the door as the two converse. Undoubtedly, Sansa had heard most of these stories before from other lords and ladies but Ser Arys indulges her girlish request.

He paints for her a picture of a gracious man, one who found a lifelong friend in the man who crippled him . Willas has waving brown hair and laughs at his sibling's jokes. Sansa brightens with a laugh when she hears how Willas dubbed his brother "the Gallant" so that people would not poke fun at his brother's weight. They speak until hours after the sun has set, and when Sansa sleeps that night, it is smiling.

.

"They say that the Northern army has passed Greywater Watch already. It's likely they will try to pass through the Twins."

"We will meet them there, ser?" 

"Lest Lord Tywin reach them first, my lady." They ride along the Greek Fork, a direct path to the Twins. Sansa breathes in deep and _hopes_.

.

Catelyn goes to negotiate their crossing. Robb paces and paces and paces.

.

Peace and quiet is apparently something Robb's small council knows nothing of. The Greatjon has strategies to discuss, his lady mother has news from Riverrun, and Theon just cackles and grins at the thought of his friend — his _lord_ — being wed to a Frey. He manages to shove them all away as the candles burn low and claim fatigue as his reasoning. 

His head swims with the idea of wedding this girl, this stranger. It is known that the Freys are not the best looking house, and they are shrewd, unforgiving people. An image comes to mind of a girl with narrow hips and hunched shoulders, tiny teeth and a scowl to boot. Her hair is scraggly and uncombed, almost like a wilding's. Robb fights the urge to shudder. He scolds himself for being so shallow; he is the lord of Winterfell, and he commands an army of twenty thousand men. Would he risk the lives of twenty thousand just for the physical faults of one girl? He grits his teeth and stares at the figurines littering the map of Westeros.

.

No one can compare to Sansa, Robb thinks just before he sleeps. He has shed his armor and lays beneath his furs thinking and thinking. Grey Wind is curled at the foot of his bed, lifts his head when Robb shifts and turns restlessly. Fourteen — no, she is fifteen now, as her nameday passed just months after she and their lord father arrived at King's Landing. He has no doubt that her nameday came and went without Joffrey's knowledge. He is not a boy who cares about the little things that make a lady smile so sweetly. Something churns within him at the thought of his sister. Jealousy? No. No, it's not that. 

Robb's hand rests just above his waist and in the dark, he can see her blue eyes. This Frey girl will not compare. He remembers how soft her lips were and how the curve of her waist felt under his hand. Fifteen and unwed, Sansa is known as the Maid of Winter. After a year in the capitol, she will have grown more and more like a woman. She is years past the age to wed, but their father had loved her too much to consent to a wedding unless she herself agreed. 

The princess of Winterfell had refused House Royce, having heard too many stories about valemen to consider living there. Humfrey Hightower was noble indeed, she mused, but he was also a fourth son. Theon had doubled over laughing when the possibility arose of joining the Greyjoy and Stark houses, but stopped dead in his tracks when Eddard made mention of either of his uncles being possible husbands. _Sansa deserves better than an Ironborn_ , he had grinned bitterly. She entertained Harrion Karstark when he rode to Winterfell to court her, but she begged her father for someone closer in age, someone with a kinder smile. She had shuddered at the mention of the Freys, and balked at the idea of being the lady of the Crag. In the end, the only suitors Sansa had not outright refused were Lancel Lannister and Edric Dayne.

.

("It is said that the Daynes have eyes like amethysts, and the Lannisters have hair like spun gold." Robb is praying in the godswood when Sansa's sweet voice carries to him. He turns to face her. She has a light blue cloak pulled around her and her hair, unbraided, curls and flows in a red mess. She will turn thirteen in a few months.

"A match with the Lannisters would benefit the North. It would be ... smart." They sit together in front of the Heart tree, Sansa leaning into her brother's warmth. She takes his hand and twines their fingers together.

"The seat of Dayne is Starfall, in western Dorne." She says quietly, as if the Dornishmen themselves were there to listen and take offense. Robb is silent for a long while, and Sansa thinks he has begun to pray to avoid the conversation.

"— Dorne is very far, dear sister." He does not smile. No, his stomach twists into knots and his lips press into a thin frown. He would not have his sister sold to any man, shipped off to some strange land where her husband to be leers at her and grops at her without any thought to her heart. Robb himself had just last month agreed to wed the lady Margaery of Highgarden. No matter what alliance it may break, he would rather keep Sansa here in Winterfell. 

Nodding, she remarks quietly that she will not marry Edric Dayne. When they hear their mother calling to them a long while later, Robb stands first to leave. He offers Sansa his hand and here in the sight of gods, she is his lady.

Robb goes to his lord father's solar that night and insists his father break the engagement between himself and Margaery. Instead, he asks him to wed Sansa to Willas Tyrell. If she must marry anyone, let her marry someone fair and good like this Tyrell heir. He will make her home Highgarden, a place of roses and singers, fine horses and marble colonnades. It is a place of songs and chivalry and beauty, and if she must leave, this is the sort of kingdom his sister deserves.) 

.

Lord Frey cackles oddly when he sees Sansa. She curtsies as is proper before him and he kisses her hand. He makes her skin crawl. She had changed attire after their stay at the Crossroads Inn, but something urged her to don the beautiful gown before she sees her brother. Sansa felt exposed now with the tops of her breasts bared and Lord Frey leering.

"Lady Catelyn was here only the other day." He tries to barter a deal with her, a marriage. Sansa is tired of talk of weddings and her hand is promised to the King. She gives him gold instead. Lion's gold.

.

She catches sight of the flayed man's banner first. Then a winter sun. Then a wolf. She spurs her horse quicker and quicker until she is in the middle of the camp and her horse rears before a kraken.

"Sansa — !" He shouts to gain her attention. He's rubbing the mare's neck then and making a soothing noise. A clattering of hooves and arms signals that the whitecloaks have caught up with her. The camp which only rumbled before is now alight with men rushing and someone roars, calling their lord.

Theon's hair is more ragged now, but his charm remains as he takes her by the waist to help her down. He's smirking, and his hands stay on Sansa's waist for a moment before they slide around her. He holds her and she can smell the sweat and smoke on his furs. Then there's her name again, only a whisper in comparison to Theon's shout. There are so many other voices calling out to her — _my lady, lady Sansa. m'lady_ — that she hardly believes her ears. She feels the pressure of a creature against her leg. There's fur under her hand when she reaches and a wolf nudges her hand fondly. 

Robb is standing there. Mouth agape, disbelief swimming in his eyes. Theon moves away from her, bowing his head with a nod to Robb. She sees then -

Here stands the Lord of Winterfell, donned in armor and hard leather and fur that drapes his shoulders. His beard is long now, and his hair unkempt. Here stands Robb, her brother, her knight. Her chest swells at the sight of him and her heart stops. 

He takes a single step forward and cannot help but stare; she is a sight to behold, Under the silks and thin wool, there are curves and a woman's body. His sister was blooming when she left the North, and now she returns, the Maid of Winter. There is something warm within him. He wants to take her into his arms in this instant, pull her away from the eyes of his men to a place for only two.

When he reaches for her, there is a blur of auburn - Tully. Their mother embraces her before Robb can. She's nearly weeping as she holds her daughter, who smiles widely, graciously and rests her head on Catelyn's shoulder. Sansa has missed her mother, she has — but, looking up at the sight of Robb's back, turned and marching off towards his tent — she has missed _him_ most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the jumping around in this chapter, and probably in future chapters. i love backstory ok, sue me.


	3. wolf's teeth

"It is good to see you in such health, my lady. Did the capital treat you well?" Lord Bolton is not a kind man, Sansa reminds herself. He is well-mannered, but not kind. He leads her by the arm around camp as they talk. Sers Arys and Osmund linger a few feet back, watching the two. Theon had been her escort at first, but then Roose appeared with word that Robb needed him and now her hand rests on the leather of his arm. She is not much shorter than him, but she still inclines her head to hear him. She offers a polite smile.

"My lord father was Hand of the King, the capital was good to us." She omits the beatings, the threats, the cruelty. _Lord Bolton does not need to know these things, Sansa thinks_.

"And your sister? Is she still there?" Arya. Arya who was brash and boyish, who explored the vaults of dragons beneath the Red Keep. Arya who enjoyed fighting and chasing cats, is trapped with the Lannisters. Bolton stops walking when he feels Sansa's steps dragging and looks down at her calmly. Her grip on his arm tightens just slightly.

"She is still engaged to Prince Tommen, my lord. They deemed it wise to keep her there." _As leverage_.

.

Sansa dines with her lady mother that evening. Catelyn asks about her husband, Sansa's father, and Sansa has barely any words to comfort her. Eddard is being held within the black cells, starved and accused of not only killing his best friend but of trying to depose the boy king. She holds her mother's hand.

.

"I would speak with Sansa. Alone." Robb stares at the floor when he speaks. Catelyn is upset, but when he softly adds the word please, she begrudgingly complies. The two knights make no attempt to move, and Robb's patience thins. Robb had been less than pleasant with the two knights during their introductions earlier. 

"Leave us." He snarls, or perhaps it is Grey Wind standing just behind the Northern lord who snarls. Ser Osmund keeps his gaze steady with Robb, and both rest their hands obviously on the hilt's of their swords. Ser Arys looks to Sansa and waits for any sort of response. She simply echoes her brother's words, touching the knight's arm lightly to assure him everything is alright. He nods once and takes both himself and Osmund from the tent. They are alone then. Neither moves until Sansa opens her hand and beckons the wolf forward. Grey Wind settles at her feet, nudges her hand with his cheek.

.

(He presses her into the door of his bedroom.

The raven bearing news of the Tyrell's agreement arrived at noon. Robb had brought his sister lemoncakes from the kitchens to surprise her when their father came bearing news. 

Robb had nearly ruined his bedroom, tearing apart a pillow and shoving everything from his desk into a whirling mess. He stood there breathless and enraged, Grey Wind howling somewhere in the courtyards of Winterfell. He hears the creak of his door but doesn't turn. A soft hand on his shoulder tells him it is his sister, his lovely and pure sister who is being shipped off for this stranger to claim her in his bed. Willas Tyrell is a good man, he's not a lion nor kraken nor wolf. Wolf, he thinks, she is a wolf and always will be.

"Robb—?" He pins her to the door in five steps. Her furs ball beneath his hands. Silent, she stares up at him with some mix of calm confusion. When she glances down, he tilts his face to meet hers only just barely; their noses meet, and Sansa's eyes close. Her breath smells of lemons.

"I will bring you his head if he hurts you, dear sister. I will wrap it in our banner and bring it to you.")

.

Her eyes have less light than they once did. His hands hold her face, then move to her neck. She makes no movements but to look up at her brother. The light that flickers across his face makes his face look cast in ash and dirt. He has not shaved for days, and the long ride from Winterfell has made him weary. Every word he says is out of concern for her, and he rests his forehead against hers.

“Have they hurt you?”

“The Kingsguard? No, no. They are to ensure I return safe.”

“Are you not staying?” Sansa hesitates, drawing back to look her brother in the eye.

“I am meant to return to King Joffrey, hopefully bearing news of the North’s fealty.”

“He wants us to bend our knee to him while he holds our father in chains?” She presses her lips into a thin line as Robb’s grip tightens on her shoulders.

“You must,” she insists. “or else they will execute our traitor father.”

“He is no traitor.” He’s holding her shoulders now, and she stills under his tightening grip. Robb is nearly yelling now in his frustration, and the faint clamoring of armor signals that the two knights outside approach.

“I am to return with news that the North pledges to obey —”

“We will not bend—” She snaps and shoves his hands away in a rage. Stunned, he watches her retreating form as she walks a few steps from him. His direwolf circles her worriedly, nudges at her. Sansa has to remind herself to breathe, to be calm. She is a lady, the King’s lady, even.

“Robb, I am to marry the King.” There is silence then. The knights stop moving, and Grey Wind sits at Sansa’s feet. She inhales, and on the fourth breath, Robb is behind her, taking her in his arms. Her stomach tightens, coils and warms with Robb’s arm crossing her collar and under her breasts. She fights him only for a second until she feels his lips pressed against her ear and he’s whispering to her, promising her.

“He will not have you, Sansa, nor will I bend my knee to him. I am going to storm King’s Landing to get our father and Arya back; I will not have that monster on the Iron Throne.”

.

She had stood balanced on her balcony for nearly two hours when Myrcella enters her room, calling out for Arya. She turns with a sullen gaze towards the golden princess with her flowing skirts and red ribbons in her hair. She is sweet and she is naïve, Arya thinks to herself, remembering when her own sister wore such a careless smile. 

It is by the Queen’s request that Arya will dine with the royal family tonight. The Stark girl pointedly straightens herself to appear as tall as she can at dinner, and she speaks in short, curt sentences to the Queen. Her dark hair has been left unattended save for how much Myrcella was able to brush before Arya’s temper flared. Upon her departure, Sansa had told Arya to behave, to do as the Queen liked and to be friendly to the prince and princess if she could. To Arya, this meant gritting her teeth while the two practiced needlework, playing hide and seek in the gardens, and breaking their fast together some mornings. 

Syrio compliments his student on her extreme patience one day, saying that she was like a wolf waiting in the snow and behind trees for when it’s just right to kill its prey, whereas the lion pounces impulsively at its first chance.

“I don’t want to kill Myrcella, nor Tommen. It’s Joffrey and Cersei who should die.” He parries her strike, counters with a well-placed stab that she dodges.

.

The steady thrum of hooves along the beaten forest path is a lulling beat as Theon explains the engagement of their leige lord to Sansa. She coolly watches Robb who leads their pack. 

"It's a political wedding, my lady," he pauses to note her thin frown. "the Northern armies needed to cross, and this was the only way the Freys would allow it. As the future Queen, you ought to know how this game is played."

.

"We will attack Jaime Lannister's forces from three sides. Lord Karstark, you will lead your forces south and face the enemies head-on, while Lords Mallister and Umber will head west along with the Mormont forces. Attacking from the east, I will lead the Stark men and the Freys. The Tully forces will meet us at the river. Lord Bolton is marching to the Green Fork to meet Tywin Lannister there in battle. After the battle is done, all Northern armies will regroup at Riverrun." The lords surrounding him nod in agreement, and Robb keeps his gaze on the map spread before him.

.

Her hands are still smooth, unlike his own calloused grip. She's trying her best to stay composed even here in his tent where they are alone.

"Return to me, brother. Please." Sansa kisses him, soft and for only briefly. When she draws away, Robb chases her lips and they kiss for a moment more. His squeezes her hands to answer her, and then he is gone. Off to battle, off to war.

.

His mind is blank while he fights. There is only one thing that a soldier can focus on while he's fighting, and that's surviving. Robb slashes, hacks, stabs. The red and gold of the Lannister men fall one by one, but not quick enough. Too many Northern men are dying. Robb can see the body of Torrhen Karstark laying there. Red, terrible red is still pouring from his wounds and when Robb rubs quick at his face, red stains all of his armor and along his blade hand. Theon is at his side suddenly, shouting something Robb can't hear. Fight, survive.

" _Return to me_."

Robb shoves Theon off of him and dashes towards the Kingslayer. He's standing there, heaving breath after labored breath as he yanks his sword out of another Northern man's chest. Daryn Hornwood. Damn, Robb can only spare half a second to mourn his bannerman before he's swinging at the Kingslayer. The metal sings and the Lannister knight is saying something, smirking as he matches Robb blow for blow. Sansa's voice is in his head again, and he overwhelms Jaime with a fury of strikes until he has beaten the lion back and back and back until he's falling on the ground and then Robb is above him, sword at his throat, panting. Were he not clasping his sword, he would have shook.

"Robb! Robb, stop. It's over — we've won." Dacey is at his shoulder, coaxing him away with a strong hand. Theon is forcing Jaime into binds, and Robb notices that his quiver has only two arrows left. Dazed, Robb looks around and sees that there are only a few men still fighting. Most of the men bearing red and gold have thrown down their arms and hold their hands up in submission and defeat. The Greatjon is bellowing a command, Jason Mallister now holds Jaime's upper right arm, Theon takes the left.

"We've won." The Ironborn grins a full-toothed smile that lets Robb know it's true. _We've won_. The Kingslayer's chest still heaves as he recovers himself. The reek of death and freshly spilt blood perfumes the air, and Robb orders his men to return to camp.


	4. heavy on your shoulders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow so i apologize for the month's delay in posting this chapter, which is rather short still. end of the year-itis hit hard and etc, etc. here's a short chapter before a very awful, angst-riddled chapter.

“Be careful,” her father’s words echo in her head as she progresses through the Red Keep. Dawn has just broken over the capital, and the castle is too quiet for her comfort. When Arya hears a soft crying from within the princess’s chambers, she slips inside. Myrcella is sitting there on her feather bed, stroking her brother’s head soothingly as he sobs into her shoulder. She raises her head when Arya approaches, and smiles just a hint.

“A raven came — our uncle Jaime is being held captive by the Northern armies.” Tommen heaves a sob when his sister says this, curls tighter around her. Something stirs within Arya in that moment, a swirl of pride mixed with some sort of sympathy as her own father was a captive here within the Keep. She swallows the smile that comes from the thought of Robb matching blows with the Kingslayer, keeps that swell of satisfaction to herself. Neither of these golden duo had mocked her when her father was taken prisoner. Myrcella, she remembers, even offered her condolences and when Arya responded with sharp words as she stormed off, the princess gave her space.

Arya’s own condolences come out awkward and almost forced, but Myrcella graciously accepts them and beckons for the Stark girl to sit on the bed beside her as she explains the situation further. The Lannister forces at Riverrun were overwhelmed by the combined forces of the North and the Riverlands, leaving the surviving Lannisters as prisoners under Robb’s command. Unthinkingly, Arya boasts about how Robb could best even Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s Master of Arms. She then mentions Jory, his son, and her face falls in an instant. Myrcella seems to comprehend what happened, and the pair fall into a lapse of silence that is only interrupted by Tommen’s soft cries.

.

The Lord of Winterfell is resigned to his death. The Master of Whisperers nearly cringes at the sight, but holds his torch steady. Eddard’s face looks almost shocked when he tells the latest news of the Stark children. _Hope_ , Varys sees it in his gray eyes, _and it will be that hope that kills Lord Stark _.__

.

The Queen’s hand trembles when she passes the quill to Arya. She clutches at her goblet, desperately needing the relief that the alcohol brought. Looking at her green eyes, Arya sees how bloodshot and tired they are. It is just past noon, and she guesses that Cersei spent the entire morning crying, alone in her chamber. She had heard the rumors, the golden twins entangled with each other in defiance of the gods. Even the old gods forbade such things. When the Queen dictates the letter to her, Arya hears how her voice catches on her brother’s name. Jaime Lannister. She had heard other names for him — Kingslayer, Oathbreaker — but no one dared say he didn’t care for his sister.

.

If only to stop the boy’s crying, Arya snatches up a kitten, so small it only seems like a tuft and a half of hair, and gives it to the prince. He grins wide at her, showing a crooked tooth but also genuine joy. Afterwards, Myrcella walks alongside her as Arya goes to the usual chamber to meet Syrio for dance lessons. As she came rather early, Syrio is not there to greet her, so instead, the princess lingers there and dances by herself, swaying and swirling this way and that as she hums a quiet melody. Arya thinks of her sister, and her chest aches.

“Will I be teaching two to dance today?” Syrio’s voice snaps Arya out of her thoughts, but Myrcella comes to a gentle halt in the middle of her sway.

“Forgive my intrusion,” she bends in a curtsy, wears a courteous smile. Syrio responds with a low bow of his own to show his respect to the little lady. Myrcella goes to leave, but turns at the doorway and extends a soft invitation to dinner that evening, if the dance lessons do not run late. Arya nods, accepts the offer with a “maybe” and then the princess is gone. In between parried strikes and heaving breathes, Arya explains about the letter to Robb, to Sansa. A demand of fealty or they will take Eddard’s head.

Syrio dances with her until far past night fall, until the sound of clattering wood swords is white noise and until Arya can force down the bile in her throat and the sting of tears against her eyes. The torches sputter and spit as the Stark girl weaves her way back to her chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Gold cloaks stare at her with unforgiving eyes. Her brother has taken their lion, her sister has been sold to their King, and her traitor father rots in the cells far below. Syrio sees to it that Arya is alone in her room, and leaves without a word.

She spends the next hour staring through the window from her bed and out into the darkness of the capital.

.

The hem of her skirt is ruined with mud, Sansa dully thinks as she wanders amongst tents and men of her brother’s army. All conversation is of war, and Sansa cares not to speak with any of them. The men bow their heads to her, saying my lady, good evening, and so on. She returns their courtesies with a gentle nod of her own, but otherwise, she keeps her gaze forward, despite not having any particular path. Ser Osmund follows her, a silent presence at her left that she willfully ignores. She thinks instead of her father, of how she shoved aside the doll and yelled and stamped her foot. She thinks of how Arya’s face lit up at the thought of returning home to Winterfell, and how she proudly wore those bruises from falsely named dance lessons. It was only just Arya’s nameday, but it passed without much celebration there in the capital. Too many small council meetings, too many night spent pouring over ledgers and tomes. Briefly, Sansa considers Syrio a sort of gift. _He is_ , Sansa reflects, _the only person in King’s Landing to make my sister smile_.

The Kingslayer smiles oddly at her, and only then does Sansa realize she has come to stand before the iron bars that hold Jaime Lannister. She turns immediately, but he calls out to her.

“Lady Sansa, won’t you spare a moment — if only to allow me to greet the Maid of Winter and my fellow knight?” He looks beyond her, to where the Kettleblack knight lingers. She breathes in to steady her sudden nerves, and steps closer to the cage so they can speak more privately. Sansa smooths her skirts and speaks,

“If I am the Maid of Winter, shall I call you Kingslayer?” His smile falters a hint, and he tilts his head to look at her, rakes his eyes over her curves under the tight silks. When she looks at him, she sees no lust within him. He examined her only to see her. Sansa then understands that he truly loves Cersei. Even if Kingsguard swear to take no wives, it does not keep them from wanting women. But this one — this man has already given his heart and his whole being to someone.  _A_ _m I nothing in comparison_ , a quiet voice asks. Somewhere, she doesn’t mind — it is not the Kingslayer whose heart she covets.

“My name is Jaime, if it so pleases my Lady Sansa.”

“Ser Jaime, then.” She nods. Titles wind on for pages and on for days, it seems. Even little names like Maid come with a story attached.

Jaime seems to settle more easily into his seat at this acknowledgment, looking still like a lion despite mud and blood streaking his armor and beginning to mat his hair. He asks about her health, and she asks about his battle with Robb. It is pull and push, and push and pull. For every question she answers, Sansa asks another only to be answered with a question of Jaime’s. She stands there until her knees ache and her mouth is dry and the fires all around them are dimming more and more. Faintly, she can hear the Greatjon’s roar of laughter and a clamber of armor and shoving tent flaps aside as no doubt, the young Lord’s war council has been called to an end. Hours ago, Ser Osmund took a seat a few yards away and looks to be nodding off. Sansa lowers her voice, and Jaime has to strain a bit to hear her.

“Do you love her?” The smile he responds with tells Sansa all she needs to know. His smile is small, but filled with a fondness and wistful yearning that she has seen only once.

“Do you love _him_?” She almost doesn’t hear him, and then Theon is upon her and pulling at her shoulders, sweeping her away as Grey Wind appears from the darkness to bark and snarl at the caged man. Robb’s yelling at her, or perhaps it’s at Jaime, but she can’t tear herself away from the lion’s green eyes. He hears her answer even if she says no words.


	5. tear us apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this wound up being a 4.7k chapter and it's sort of, well ok it's pretty bad in terms of character death, angst & greif, sansa's first time, etc. sorry for the beat down. — also, wow ok. i'd like to thank y'all readers a bunch for sticking with me and leaving kudos, comments. thankyou, thankyou. they mean a lot.

“You must trade Ser Jaime.” Robb looks startled out of his anger when Sansa begs this of him. It is not a debate Sansa would like to be overheard, but Ser Osmund refuses to leave his lady alone and Theon won’t let his lord be betrayed by the Kingsguard. The lord struggles to contain his frustrations in the view of Osmund, but his sister sees and presses on.

“Trade Ser Jaime for our father and sister. The Queen _will_ accept." She moves closer to Robb, catching how his mouth twitches into a scowl at the Kingslayer's name. The courtesies, the decorum falls away as their argument continues. Robb refuses, Sansa insists. The Kingslayer is too valuable, he claims and regrets his words immediately. Sansa had managed to keep a fairly calm expression, but once she heard that, it was as if Robb had struck her.

"More valuable than our _family_?"

"Sansa, I —"

"You would abandon Arya? Let the Lannisters take our father's head?" Her voice is still, her eyes dark. A heavy weight settles in Robb's stomach as he realizes that the little girl he remembered was gone.

"Never." The word hangs in the air between the two. Sansa looks down to the map with its figurines and delicately takes hold of a toppled lion. She sets it aright in the center of King's Landing and Robb watches her fingers trace over the carved mane.

"Then _trade_." Without sparing him a glance, she leaves in a blur of red hair and red skirts.

.

Their lady mother looks tired. Her eyes have less shine, she smiles less. Sansa thinks back to when her mother laughed so easily at Rickon's expressions or how content she was in the early hours, braiding Sansa's hair. When Catelyn offers to braid her hair once again, Sansa can't refuse her. She shifts her thick patterned skirts of the South so she can sit in front of her mother.

The hands in her hair slowly lull her into a quiet calm. She has few words for her mother, hasn't been able to find any since they were reunited. The silent horror in her mother's eyes when she saw the lion's pendant around Sansa's neck, when she heard that Sansa was to marry the King. She had been making an effort not to cause Catelyn any more pain than she had to bear. Even now, if she closes her eyes and listens to Cat's soft humming, she thinks of the Northern snow and being bundled in furs by a fire.

.

As dawn breaks, a raven flies from Ser Osmund bearing Sansa's words. She feels Theon's eyes on her as she goes to speak with the Kingslayer, but she only relays to him the words from her letter. A proposition; Eddard and Arya for Jaime and Sansa. The golden knight asks why she would leave the North, why leave her mother, why leave Robb. She can't answer.

.

"I think that my mother will accept the proposition. You should be going home soon." Cersei had only just left Arya's room and was on her way from the Tower when Myrcella shared the news with Arya. The royal dressmaker was wrapping silks and measuring this and that and to hear something other than "lift your arm" or "quit squirming" was a relief. Arya remembers the raven arriving and hearing her sister's words. Even if it joyed her to think of returning home, the girl still dreaded her sister living here. Even if Sansa claimed and claimed that she was fine, that she was happy and even ecstatic to be wedding the King, they were only words and lies and Sansa was a worse liar than Bran. Bran. Arya frowns, suddenly longing for home worse than ever. To see her brother, who was sleeping when she had left, to see Rickon who was still a wild little boy when they parted.

"Mother will persuade Joffrey to accept. Sansa will return and marry him, and we'll have our uncle Jaime back. You won't be engaged to Tommen any longer, and you'll go back North with your father. Wouldn't that be nice?" The cheeriness in the princess's voice almost starts to sway Arya's own sour mood. The memory of Winterfell is sweet and the thought of escaping the treacherous South is sweeter still.

"Will there be a trial?" Arya asks, and Myrcella shrugs. It was no use asking the princess such a question, but Arya sought answers anyhow. She forces herself not to squirm against the awful fabrics that surround her, if only to get the horrid affair over with. A Southern gown for a Northern wolf, just like the ones that her sister so easily donned.

.

Ser Arys helps her into her saddle and moves to mount his own horse when the Northern lords appear. Sansa's mare shuffles uneasily and she soothes it with a gentle pat.

"What is the meaning of this, Sansa?" She meets her mother's Tully blue eyes, distress obvious in her voice. Robb echoes her name, accusatory and hurt.

"The King has rejected my offer, just as Lord Stark has refused my advice to trade." The cold use of his title stings, and Sansa continues. "I am returning to the capitol, where our traitor father is to stand trial for his crimes against the crown." She shifts in her seat as the horse shifts and winnies and stamps her feet in response to the direwolf lurking only a few paces away. Robb advances, only to be stopped by the two Kingsguard's blades. Theon draws, as do a number of other lords. Cat pleads on;

"Sansa, dear, please. You can't leave, the capital isn't safe."

"It isn't safe for enemies of the crown. I am to wed the King, and if the North bent the knee, you would find no enemies there either." Robb's blue eyes bore into her own, and the girl —  _lady, lady_ — keeps her face calm, collected like the Queen.

.

The shouts and clamberings of the common folk ring through all of King's Landing. A platform is thrown up before the Sept of Baelor and crowds flock to the plaza to witness the trial of Lord Eddard Stark. Arya stands next to the two lions, with whitecloaks flanking them. The Seven stare down upon them from the Sept, and Arya thinks to thank them as well as the Old Gods for hearing her prayers. The people cry for justice when her father is marched to the platform by guards whose faces she can't see. Her hair is braided simply, but she wears the dress made for her by the Queen just for such courtly events. It is grey with blue, a mix of Stark and Tully colors. Cersei doesn't look at her, only casting a single glance her way when Eddard arrives - perhaps to watch the girl's reaction.

 _I must be brave_ , Arya whispers to herself and no one hears over the chanting crowd. Silence only comes when her father begins to speak.

"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King." Ned looks at his daughter, and she nods once, encouragingly. Myrcella's words repeat in her head. _Home_. It seems naive, it feels silly, but part of Arya believes that the gods are good. He speaks on, he has come before them to confess in the sight of gods and men. His words don't register in Arya's head because they are all lies. Lies of the lions, but lies that will let them go home nevertheless. The Grand Maester speaks of just and merciful gods, and Joffrey speaks of his mother's idea for Ned to take the black, of his lady Sansa and lady Arya's begging for mercy. She looks at the King, and in his green eyes, she sees what Sansa would have called kindness. Birds call out in the harbor, and the Joffrey's eyes turn cold. The crowd roars.

"Ser Ilyn, bring me his head."

.

When Ice bites at her father's neck, and Arya sees the red, horrible crimson, copper of her father's blood, she hears the beat of wings, and a quiet inhale. Arya knows that the gods aren't listening. They never were.

.

Both knights reach for Sansa when she collapses. The only words she can say in between her tears are no. _No, no, no — father, daddy — no_. The letter is crumpled in her trembling fist and she holds Oakheart's arm with the other. _No, no, no_. She whispers over and over and over until her chest aches from the wracking sobs, until she has no more tears to shed and her eyes are red and puffy. She is fifteen, but feels five again, lost in the crypts beneath Winterfell and sobbing for her father in the cold, cold dark.

.

It is too painful to meet her mother's gaze, so she looks to Robb instead. Her brother turned Lord, truly now the title was his, she thinks. The Kingsguard stay close to either side of her as she makes her way through the camp. Robb stands, looking so worn and angry and Sansa knows it is her fault. She was unable to persuade him to bend the knee, unable to trade Ser Jaime, unable to save their father. _He doesn't know what the letter holds. How could he imagine_ , Sansa thinks bitterly. They were all so naive before the late King Robert rode for Winterfell. Everything was a song, and it was all a lie.

"They took his head." Sansa says, repeating herself as if to convince them it was real.

Silent, Robb turns and shoves away Theon's hand on his shoulder. He stops after only a few paces, as if having to register his sister's words in his head, and then his step is quicker and he keeps his head low. Sansa watches him disappear into the woods, watches the men stare after him and then approach where she and her mother stand. Catelyn looks to her folded hands before letting out a quiet breath. Moments ago, Sansa had wanted her mother to hold her, pet her hair and let her sob into her arms. Now, she stands motionless, afraid her mother didn't understand. When Cat leaves, walking in no direction in particular, it is obvious she understood.

Dozens of men bearing dozens of Northern sigils approach Sansa and Ser Arys shifts closer. She touches his arm and moves past him. No man would harm her here in the home land of her mother and the battle camp of her brother. Theon stands close to Sansa, head bowed slightly as she speaks to the men.

"My father," She starts, voice wavering and threatening to break. After a pause, she speaks on, meeting the gaze of Patrek Mallister, the Smalljon, Ser Manderly, and almost everyone around her. "Your Lord has been beheaded by the Lannisters." There is a cry, then ten, then tens and dozens of shouts. The noise rings in Sansa's ears, men bow and whisper _my lady_ and  _my condolences_ as she winds her way into the quiet of the woods.

.

"Robb," Catelyn calls. Her son swings and swings and when he breathes, it's a broken, grieving cry. Her daughter stands motionless and watching only a few feet away. The bark breaks and cracks with each blow and Catelyn shouts his name once more. Robb stops and meets his mother's gaze with reddened eyes. "You've ruined your sword." With a glance, he loosens his grip and the sword falls to the ground with a dull thud. His entire arm and shoulder screams in pain, and he stumbles forward into his mother's arms. Her leather gloves are in his Tully curls, his face pressed into her winter furs.

"I'll kill them all — every one of them. I'll kill them all."

.

She tears through her trunk of belongings to find Needle. Her breathing is ragged and Arya's hands shake as she holds the blade before her. She will kill Joffrey, run him through, make him bleed. The weapon is a leaden weight though, her arms feel so weak. There is the sound of her chamber door opening suddenly, a light pair of footsteps and when Arya turns, it is Syrio standing there at the end of her point. He eyes the blade, and then steadies his gaze on the wolf girl.

"What do we say to death?" Arya wants to curse his god, wants to curse them all. Where were the gods when Mycah was murdered, when the Northernmen were slaughtered, when the lions chopped off her father's head? Only in thinking this does she see that Syrio was right. There is only one god, and that god had taken so many of the people she loved. With her brother marching South as they spoke, death would surely lay a black shroud over him too. Arya feels a pang somewhere inside.

"Not today."

.

"When your sister returns, I'll put a child in her and she'll be my Queen." Arya nearly gags aloud at the thought of her sister bearing the King's sons. Joffrey was a monster at best and Sansa should have been at Highgarden, not here at the Keep. She bites her tongue as they walk along an outdoor corridor. The Kingsguard surround them and Syrio is just behind her. The whitecloaks had summoned her from her chambers to appear before the King. He instead decided to walk.

"I haven't decided whether you will still marry Tommen. Too many traitors in the Keep may spell disaster, and you're a wild monster like those freak wolves." He smirks and Arya forces herself not to snarl in response. He runs a hand through his hair only once before pointing upwards to above a near wall. "If I had my way, you would be joining your father there." Arya looks, only to wish she hadn't. The lifeless face of her father hangs there, impaled upon a spike like a common raper in the Riverlands. Her stomach turns, and when Joffrey yells for her to look, she does.

Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. All that remains is a bloodless head, flies skittering about the wall from person to person. She recognizes each and every face; Cayn, Hullen, Tomard, Mordane. When she doesn't speak, Joffrey yells again and again, and Arya remains silent. _Not today_ , she repeats to herself even as the angered King shoves past her and marches down the hall, guards in tow. Not until the sound of footsteps has completely faded does Arya look away. _Not today_.

.

Some bannerman shouts to the crowds of Northernmen as dinner that night slows. It is politics and war and kings. Sansa's appetite is all but gone at the thought.

Sitting just to Robb's left, Sansa looks across the table at her mother who is silent through the meal. After over a year at King's Landing, even these Riverlands send Sansa into a shivering fit. At night, the thick fabrics and layers of her gown are not enough to warm her, especially this gown which bares the tops of her breasts. Theon had swept a wool cloak over her shoulders hours ago and since then had kept close to Sansa. She felt more at ease with the Greyjoy than with her own brother, if only because she feared Robb's rage and the weight of blame that Robb no doubt placed upon her for their father's death.

She hears only muffled voices until there is laughter and a cheer. Sansa turns to watch the Greatjon, and his words are clear and loud.

"Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to and now the dragons are _dead_." There's a soft muttering amongst the lords, and Sansa sees many of them nod in agreement. Umber draws his sword and it sings through the air as he looks to the Lord of Winterfell seated next to her.

" _There_ sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to —" He kneels, and Sansa sees that Robb is holding his breath. All Sansa holds is the word no on her breath. " _The King in the North_!" He cries, sword placed at Robb's feet in deference. There is a weighty pause before slowly, Robb rises. She almost reaches for him, nearly yanks him back into his seat. She wants to scream _no, no not another King, not more war and blood_ , but it is too late and another man rises only to kneel.

"I'll have peace on those terms." A second sword is laid before him. "The King in the North." Cassel rises, and then another, and another. Theon stands then.

"Am I your brother? Now and always?"

"Now and always." Robb's breath hits the chilled air, forms a wisp which blows away. She pulls her cloak closer as Theon kneels.

"My sword is yours in victory and defeat — from this day until my last day." The Ironborn joins into the chanting. Every man begins to shout the same words and they echo off of Riverrun's walls louder and louder still.

" _The King in the North_!" They cry. Robb stands in the middle of them all as each man kneels with his sword laid out for their wolf king. He looks to Sansa, whose eyes brim with tears that she knows she cannot shed. For him, she whispers what his men proclaim;

" _The King in the North_."

.

Crumpled papers decorate the floor around Sansa. The fingertips on her right hand are smudged with black, black ink and the fires in her tent burn lower with each passing hour. Even after the lords had proclaimed Robb their King, the feast went on and on. Sansa excused herself, only stopping to regard Theon and tell him that she was to be in her tent. On the outskirts of the Northernmen's feast, both Ser Arys and Osmund stood waiting for their lady's departure. After so long, Sansa could only guess that most of the encampment was drunk, perhaps even Robb had joined in the drinking to celebrate (or to mourn) his crowning.

The King in the North, she thinks as she runs the dry quill against blank parchment before her. A simple letter, a brief note was all she was trying for. A message to the Queen, a word for Arya. All she could think of was the crown of winter metals that the old kings once wore. Bronze and iron crafted by the First Men, a heavy weight on the wolf's brow. She had never thought to picture her brother with such a crown. As children, they wore flower crowns or crowns of twigs twined together as they played in the Godswood, but she was sure that no gods had ever meant for Robb to be King.

.

"Sansa." Robb sweeps aside the folds of her tent and enters quietly. She stands before a mirror, unbraiding her hair with nimble fingers. She sees without turning that her brother has discarded his armor from the feast. Quietly, she dismisses the two knights, telling them not to return, to enjoy the festivities for themselves. Both hesitate, but Sansa says please and they obey. He does not speak, so she returns to brushing her hair out with her hands, leaving it to hang in fiery lengths around her dimly lit face.

"Will you leave us now that father is dead? Will you return to your Lannister King?" He knows Sansa is trying her best not to react, trying to be a lady like she's meant to be. He is not nearly as drunk as his men, but the alcohol in his blood is enough to cloud his thoughts, blur the lines, and so his grief, his sorrow becomes anger. "He will not love you, sister. None of them will." She had begun walking closer to him, but stops.

"Am I so hard to love?" Her accusation is almost inaudible. Robb strides forward, seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her, jolting her into opening her eyes wide and terrified.

" _No_. No, Sansa, _never_ , but you cannot be his. Not if I can help it." Robb looms only barely over his sister who struggles against his grip. She has grown more and more in their year apart, not only in height but as a woman. In the warmth of her tent, she had shed her cloak and now stands in the revealing Southern gown. He thinks of Joffrey with his green eyes following his sister around the Great Hall, thinks of how undeserving he is of his sister's hand. His grip tightens on her shoulders and she slams her hands against his chest until even after he kisses her so fiercely that their teeth clash and one or both of their lips bleed.

When her hands still, his grip weakens and his sister utters a strangled, weeping noise against Robb's lips. He moves, steps so that they wind up falling onto the bed, hands tangling together. The kiss breaks as Robb pushes himself up to lean over her. Her hair is strewn in all different ways and there is a smudge of blood on her lips. He tries to form words, tries to ask permission or beg or demand but he manages nothing.

" _Robb_." His name is the only permission she gives, and then he takes his hands away and is pulling at the laces and clasps of her gown, kissing her hungrily. Sansa responds as best she can, helping to undo a clasp her or shifting to move her legs around Robb's own. When he shoves silk and cloth and when Sansa is left only in her thinnest layers, she shudders visibly. Parted now, she reaches for Robb, pulling on the ties of his jerkin until he discards it somewhere to the side. Pressing her palm to his chest for a moment, she feels the lines of muscle beneath and a heat rises at the realization of their state. The candle at her desk is nearly burnt out, so she can only just make out Robb's face in the darkness.

He kisses her again as his hands slide up her legs, bringing the sheer cloth of her slip with it until the dress pools at her waist. Robb hears his heart in his ears as he ungraciously yanks off her smallclothes and presses his hand there. Gasping, Sansa instinctively tries to close her legs, but Robb holds her thigh with his other hand. He strokes her there, not gently but just enough to spread the wetness and allow him to press a finger into her. Almost immediately, Sansa stills and stares up at her brother, her _King_. She trust him, oh she trusts him wholly but every sensation is new and even though she knows this is Robb, her dear, dear Robb, Sansa is still afraid.

After a moment, he adds a second finger and he feels her clenching around him, very unused to the sensations and feeling of having something inside of her. Robb's blood burns hotter at the thought of being inside his sister. She moans, whimpers so softly that he knows she's forcing herself to stay quiet. He thrusts his fingers inside of her only for a moment more before drawing back to unlace his breeches. Sansa's reaching up to grip the edge of her bed, eyes clamped shut as Robb positions himself at her entrance. Her breathing hitches when he begins to push and press without stopping. She cries out in pain as he gives a thrust and breaks her maidenhead. When he kisses her, noses at her cheeks, he can feels the tears slipping from her eyes. She doesn't dare object to her King, doesn't dare reject her brother.

Robb remains still within her for a beat before moving, slow at first but quickly again almost too soon. He can just barely see that Sansa is biting her forefinger to stop from sobbing. She grunts, whines with each of her brother's thrusts burying him inside of her. He finds a rhythm and Sansa soon begins to move her hips in time, hooking her legs around Robb's waist. _She is a wolf_ , Robb thinks, not a lion nor a rose or anything else.

He grabs her hips and shoves harder, seizing Sansa's lips with his own as her fingers dig into his shoulders, nails dragging across his skin in protest. Their breath mingles in the space between their lips and Robb feels the sheen of sweat collecting on his sister's skin. Sansa is tight around him and quicker and quicker, Robb finds himself edging towards his climax. He covers her body with his own, fucking her quicker and less elegantly than before. The woman beneath him writhes and moans in pleasure and pain and grips at her brother's arms helplessly. She sobs his name against his skin and then Robb groans low and pained, spilling inside of her and burying himself once and twice more until he is spent.

Taking a moment to recover, Robb fights to even his breathing as he steadies himself above Sansa whose trembling legs remain wrapped around Robb, whose hands have fallen limp to either side of her.

"I promise —" He whispers, voice quiet but unwavering. Sansa closes her eyes, forces herself to ignore the pain still wracking her senses, the weight above her, the feel of bruises soon to come. She focuses on his words, the feels of his breath against her throat. "He will not have you, he will not." He repeats himself, mouthing the vow against her skin but she hears him just the same.


	6. but blood comes off

Sansa doesn't sleep for hours. She still feels Robb's words on her neck, his hands on her waist and the pain. She remembers putting her hand on Robb's chest, pushing him away feebly, silently, all effort drained from her petite frame except the effort to get out of bed. To push the skirts that had pooled at her waist back down so they fell about her ankles correctly. Thankful for the darkness of her tent, Sansa allowed her face to contort in pain as she took step by step to find her desk and snatch the half-empty wine goblet from before. Sansa recalls feeling a few drop of wine slip down her chin and when she reached to wipe them away, she felt two soft hands on her shoulders, a careful caress the moved down the crumpled fabric of her sleeves to catch one of her wrists. He turned her, slow and careful to not put pressure on any one place. He had still been catching his breath just barely, and his eyes still shone with fading lust as the two stood together.

Sansa doesn't sleep for hours. She sent Robb away, with a quiet murmur of how kings shouldn't be caught in other tents. His eyes turned down in shame, a sober realization of what he had done — what they had done — seemed to dispel any intoxication from the boy king. The room felt colder when he removed his hands and step by step, backed away from his sister. She stood motionless, as if waiting for Robb to force her to face him, waiting for Robb to strike her for speaking out. Waiting for Robb to act as she knows a King does. After a pause, she heard the shuffles of clothes, leather ties being tied again and then after a beat more, the sound of footsteps growing more and more distant.

Returning to her bed, Sansa cast away the ruined fur where she and Robb had laid and gathered the remaining sheets around herself to fight the coming chill. She didn't sleep for hours.

.

When morning light comes, Sansa wakes from what she gathers was four hours of sleep. She sees the silhouettes of Arys and Osmund standing in their usual places outside her tent's entrance. With the knowledge of their presence, the girl falls back to sleep for an hour more, clutching her pillow tightly and praying to forget the previous day.

.

"My lady?" Solitude is rare in this encampment, Sansa figures as she whips around to face the Mormont girl. Dacey is her name, she recalls, and remembers how fierce she had looked the previous night at the feast, proclaiming her sword to the North, to Robb. Fire danced on the elegant lines of her face, night showed the Northerner in her as she cried out _King in the North_. Submerged to her collarbone in the river, Sansa shivers just slightly.

"Where are your guards?" Dacey wears no armor, only plain dress and a sword at her hip like every knight. A quiet voice says there are no knights in the North.

"It would be improper for a man, particularly a man of the Kingsguard, to watch a lady bathing." Slowly, she drags her fingers through the tangled red of her hair, half-wishing for the perfumes of the South to cover the slow, creeping stench that had been collecting on her skin thanks to days without bathing here in this war camp. Dacey gives a half nod and begins to devest. She makes no effort to fold her clothes, simply tossing them atop her boots and then laying her sword beside it all. Sansa immediately finds herself staring at her long, muscled legs and the scars criss-crossing her limbs. Striking is the word that immediately comes to mind, but as Dacey wades waist deep into the water, Sansa thinks beautiful as well.

They share silence for a long while; Dacey dives further into the water to soak her hair and scrub at her muddied skin, Sansa tries her best not to jolt one way or another while carefully staying some feet from the other woman.

When Dacey considers herself clean enough, she swims closer to Sansa before the younger can shift away. Standing, the woman looms a bit over Sansa and she has to cast her gaze away from Dacey's bared breasts and skin. Carefully, too carefully for how a Northerner naturally moves, she takes Sansa's hand that covers her eyes and brings her a hint closer.

"Lady Dacey, I must protest —" Sansa begins, but sees where Dacey watches. Two blossoming blotches of red and even purple mark her shoulders where Robb had held her last night. They aren't the worst bruises she's ever had, but Sansa realizes with horror that Dacey is assuming the worst. She can't even see her aching waist and hips.

"Did they —?"

" _No!_ " Sansa shouts before the other can even suggest Arys and Osmund as culprits. She fumbles for an explanation but settles for yanking her hand away, or trying to. Feeling Dacey's eyes, examining, scraping over every inch of bare, pale skin, Sansa's stomach twists in shame and frustration. Dacey is of Robb's own personal guard, one of his confidants and best warriors, yet she dares to stand above Sansa now and look at her with such — pity? Loathing? Disgust? She can't place a word on the woman's expression, but she's seen it before. Seen it in the way the capitol folk stare at her, being paraded behind Joffrey, surrounded by white cloaks and sharp-edged steel. Seen it in the way the people of court sneered down at her when Joffrey ordered Sansa be stripped bare, the way they glowered at her when she begged mercy for her lord father. It is a look Sansa had never wished to see from the people of the North.

.

There's red all over her blade, Syrio's arms around her, and then — a sudden weightless. She yells, cursing the gods and cursing the King. Cursing the Hound and the queen and Ilyn Payne. She will kill them all, she repeats like a mantra blazing through her blood but is silenced by a harsh word from above her.

"You will not die today, Arya of Winterfell. Today, we will run."

.

There is a frightening boy, more a man than boy. Arya cranes her neck to look at him and how he wears his bulk like armor. He has black hair slick with days of working lavorously at, if she can trust her nose and the smell of soot, probably a forge. She does not cringe when he takes a step towards her. The hood of her stolen cloak covers most of her face, but her grey eyes watch. Cautious and still in an agitated state, she tightens her left over Needle, but he passes her by with only a stare. Turning, her eyes follow him as he walks past a large cage. A bald monster of a man bares his teeth as the boy passes, and she just barely hears a snicker from a man with half-white hair before Syrio re-enters her line of sight. He has donned a shabby cloak to disguise himself as well and somewhere along the run from the Red Keep to this decrepit gathering place, found himself a sword.

"We make our ways North with these men. They are destined for the Wall, but we will find your brother's army long before that." She scratches once at her face and pulls back nails with red underneath. Only briefly does she feel disgust, but more wonder since the dried blood wasn't gold like the dead man's cloak.

.

Without the service of handmaidens, Sansa dresses slower, taking double or triple the time it took before. A glance at her previous skirts tells her to change dresses, favoring a dress with shades of violet instead of the patterned red which now reminded her sickeningly of too, too much blood. She abandons her corset entirely, unable to ask anyone to help with the laces except perhaps her lady mother, gods forbid she see Sansa's body in its current state. She's barely finished with the last of the clasps when she hears Arys ask permission to enter which she grants. Turning, she sees the messily long hair of the Greyjoy heir just behind the white cloak. He moves past Arys and inclines his head politely. Through the years, she'd grown used to having Theon bow his head to her parents and often times also to the children, considering that as a ward of Winterfell, he was seen as below their station despite being a son of a Lord and his Lady just like the Starks. However, with the proclamation of Robb as the King in the North, Sansa is now a princess in her own right and Theon regards her with almost excessive courtesy.

"His Grace requests your presence, Princess Sansa." Her hands, folded neatly over her stomach, press harder at hearing her new title. Sansa notices Arys's frown, notes that — in the eyes of the crown — she is standing in a traitor's army camp and that if she accepts being their princess, she is declaring herself a traitor too. She might as well be kneeling before Ilyn Payne with her neck bared to his blade.

"Though you all declare my brother a king, I will be no princess to a traitor's cause. My lady will suffice as far as titles go." Without much argument, Theon seems to catch onto the tension in Sansa's voice and nods warily. He extends a hand for her to take all the same and, pushing the tent flaps out of the way, leads her to the center of the camp.

Sansa isn't the only female in camp, but besides their now widowed mother, she is the only lady and for this, her beauty catches nearly every man's eye. A few camp followers call out to her, cooing princess, pretty little princess until the white cloak's glare silences them. Sansa does not turn away from the stares in embarassment, but instead stares straight ahead at the center-most tent without so much as batting an eye. She did not survive over a year in King's Landing without seeing Queen Cersei walk amongst throngs of people who she no doubt despised. Sansa could never depise the North, no, never. She tells herself however that this is not a moment to be soft. This is war, a voice says. It is not a time to be soft, it is a time to be tough and enduring like the winters before and the long winter to come. She will not be hateful and cruel like the Queen, but she will not be weak.

Lord Karrstark and Lord Umber part when they notice Theon approaching with Sansa on one arm. They nod appropriately and when they begin to address her as princess, she cuts them off and says simply to call her their lady,

"If it pleases my lords." She adds with a sweet smile like she'd always been taught. They correct themselves and leave with their cloaks trailing in the mud. Theon takes his arm away and echoes my lady before leaving her standing before the tent entrance alone. She inhales, folds her hands neatly once again and enters.

.

Robb is alone in the grandness of his tent. A candlestand lights his desk but barely reaches where Sansa stands silent. He lifts his head when the sun enters and then fades. He can barely see Sansa except for a dim outline and a dash of purple.

"I asked you here because Dacey came to me earlier and asked me to speak with you."

"You summoned me for no reason then, Your Grace."

"I did not _summon_ you, Sansa." His lips press into a thin line, patience thin after only one day of kingship. He beckons his sister to come forward which she does, one elegantly cautious step at a time until she arrives an armslength away. "And ... don't call me Your Grace, please. Not like that. We're alone, just you and I — no titles or kingships or anything." Pushing away from the desk, he takes a step closer, only for her to lean just a hint back and narrow her gaze for the briefest moment. Something within Robb aches, a sharp and sudden question about how true were Dacey's words. He hesitates to approach the matter, but places Sansa's security above her comfort.

"Dacey says when you both were bathing, she saw bruises upon you." An inhale, chest rising slowly as Robb forces the issue she wishes didn't exist. "She thinks one of the Kingsguard has hurt you, and I need to know if that's true." Finally, Sansa's gaze drops from Robb's own and his stomach twists into sick rage. "Which of them was it?" He demands in a low voice that causes Sansa's hands to tighten in knots. Closer now, he repeats his question once then twice until his tone is dangerous and close to being able to be heard outside the tent. Sansa remains silent and all Robb hears is his heart beating quicker and the sound of blood rushing against his ears. Suddenly, he turns back towards his desk and with one motion, sweeps all the papers and maps to the floor. The jar of ink creates a small lake where it lands and the quill that lands is stained jet black as well. When he turns back to Sansa, she is watching the sudden mess with startled eyes and doesn't catch Robb in time to stop him from grabbing her and placing her atop the now empty desk.

"Robb, stop —" She whispers, pushing to try and get down but is held in place by Robb's hands on her thighs.

"Tell me who it was." He insists.

"Robb, —"

"Tell me."

"Please —" Sansa's voice threatens to break.

"It was me, wasn't it?" Her hands freeze where they were trying in vain to shove Robb away. His eyes swim with horror and absolute agony, and Sansa can't bear to see her brother like this. She shields her eyes with one hand and curls the other into a fist in her skirts. Robb's grip on her loosens but she can still feel the indents of his fingers on her thighs. The silence stretches on between them; Sansa refusing to see his remorse, while Robb prays his sister will meet his gaze. He calls her name, so so quiet that she barely even hears though they are but inches apart.

"Let me see."

.

Only once does she look at her reflection before dunking her hands in the water to wash away the brown blood staining her face and hands. Her hair tickles her ears and blocks some of her eyesight unless she swats it away. The eyes that stare back at her are dull and show only hate. A killer, she is truly ugly now. Her father would not recognize his Arya, so she tells Syrio a different name to say.

.

He can feel her shuddering underneath his touch, but she makes no sounds except for sometimes a breathy sigh. He's kissing every inch of skin he can find. Her dress is half undone so that her shoulders and breasts are exposed for Robb to inspect. The pain in his gut doesn't ease, even long after his sister began to respond to his touch. Angry and purple and bloody are her bruises and the knowledge that it was his fault eats at Robb from the inside. He begs Sansa almost inaudibly to forgive him, to know that he wouldn't hurt her in this way. Her thin hands twist in his hair and keep his head pressed to her breast where he gently, oh so lovingly massaged her breasts which tore from Sansa's lips a suppressed moan. His mouth finds her collarbone where he delicately marks her, marks that ought to fade within the hour.

"Robb, dear Robb, dear brother..." She finally murmurs as he kisses and sucks along her jaw. He continues to ignore the stiffness in his breeches, focusing only on lavishing attention upon Sansa until she gains the comfort to look him in the eye. Her legs tighten instinctively around him, bringing the two closer until Robb is sure Sansa will be able to feel his hardness against her. As if the gods themselves predicted it, Sansa's hands in his hair freeze and her breathing seems to stop entirely. Panicked, Robb draws away from her quickly, taking a step back but trailing his hands on her lower thighs.

"Sansa..." Robb begins, but then she's shoving herself carefully back onto the desk and closing her legs, fixing her skirts and casting her gaze away once again. Robb's heart sinks, and his hands drop from Sansa's figure all together. "Sansa, are you alright? Please tell me if you're alright." He pleads quietly, wishing to take her up in his arms like when they were children, when winter storms would batter the castle walls, when Old Nan would tell stories about wildlings stealing maids. She looks small, arms pushing the fabric back onto her shoulders and legs held tightly together. She looks small and frightened, and Robb hates himself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so after spending a year abroad in europe, i've returned to this fic!!1! ... ahhhhhahah oops sorry for the delay and thank you (seriously thank you thank you thank you) to all who have somehow still found it and kept with it. i struggled with a while to figure out where i want the story to go and if i wanted to keep arya involved or just focus on robb and sansa. anywho, i've already begun ch 7 (which should involve theon more and also deal heavily with arya's story) so hopefully i can have that up in a short while. ♥


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